


Sleight of Hand

by Delcat



Series: The Skies We're Under [8]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Choking, Dominance, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Fluff, Forced Masturbation, Humiliation, Kinky Self-Care, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-04-24
Packaged: 2018-01-20 09:35:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1505570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delcat/pseuds/Delcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One pill makes you larger, and one pill makes you small, and the ones that Maxwell gives you…oh, Wilson, you should know better.  Side effects may include lightheadedness, behavioral changes, odd and alarming sexual feelings, and uncontrolled muscle spasms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Main Event

Mushroom farming was a difficult, thankless job, especially down here.  It was an endless task of monitoring, feeding, adjusting light flowers to fake natural day-night cycles, harvesting, collecting spores, all in the mouldering stench of the cellar.  
  
After that came still more work, boiling the caps, decanting the chemicals, measuring over and over again to make sure each dose was right before adding the stabilizer and shaping the pills.  The last part was the worst because it was trial and error, leaning heavily on the side of error—Wilson’s first batch had been disastrously strong, and he almost swore off the entire business.  Hallucinations and pain had to be better than dry-heaving for six hours straight.  
  
But in the end, it really was worth it.  Science saw him through more often than not now, and he had a comforting collection of little glass bottles filled with magic pills—red and green, like Christmas but without a monstrous goat creature trying to rob him of his only remaining rations and warmth.  It was neverending toil, but the rewards were precious, and Maxwell’s refusal to have anything to do with it gave Wilson a secret, if tiny, pride.  
  
So when the new pill showed up in the china saucer on the table, it was something of a surprise.  
  
Wilson stared at it as he dried his hair.  Mushrooms required very particular, very unpleasant fertilizer, and Maxwell refused to even be in the same room as Wilson after harvest until he had bathed.  He didn’t mind—it occurred to him sometimes that while he was in Maxwell’s possession now, he could have had him much earlier by offering him working plumbing.  There weren’t many days in winter that he _hadn’t_ considered selling his soul for a hot bath.  Selling his body hadn’t crossed his mind, but…  
  
He shook the mental image off quickly.  If he let himself stray down that road, he wouldn’t be able to come back from it, and the note on the saucer implied Maxwell was out of the house again.  He didn’t want the night to be longer than it had to be.  
  
Maxwell was frequently absent for reasons he never explained, or at least didn’t explain beyond “If I listen to you running your mouth for two more minutes one of us is going to die”, and he frequently left notes.  They were blunt imperatives in elegant handwriting, usually addressing Wilson’s memory gaps—“Don’t starve” was the most common, followed by “Take your damn pills” and “Your room or your cage, pick one”, the last cropping up whenever he fell asleep at his desk during a project.  They were almost shamefully effective, especially once Wilson realized that choices were, in fact, ultimatums.  He had been making it to his bed much more often since _that_ little surprise.  
  
It wasn’t the only surprise he’d been given.  After one particularly rough night, he had limped into the bathroom to find a note reading “If you’re reading this, I clearly wasn’t thorough enough, let me fix that”.  Another had been pinned to the carpet and written in text so small he’d had to get on his hands and knees to read it.  Once he was close enough, he had made it out as just saying “Hold still”.  
  
In retrospect, he probably should have seen that one coming.  
  
Anyway, Maxwell wasn’t being cute this time.  The note was folded slightly to keep the medication in place, and it read “Don’t argue”.  
  
Wilson tipped the pill into his palm cautiously and examined it.  It looked the same as the others, but it was muted grey in color, tinged with purple.  Blue and red?  He’d seen blue mushrooms before, although he’d never experimented with them.  Had Maxwell just combined the two?  It was…strange, he couldn’t stand farming, why would he…  
  
 _Don’t argue._  
  
Wilson placed it on his tongue.  It had an odd texture, almost slippery, and no taste, but it went down easily enough.  He braced against the table, ready for the wire to be tripped, to be dropped to his knees or grabbed from behind or…  
  
Nothing.  
  
It wasn’t that he was disappointed, it would be ridiculous to be disappointed, it made absolutely no sense to…  
  
The rationalizations lasted the length of the hallway until Wilson collapsed into bed, pressing his palms to his forehead and hissing a frustrated groan through his teeth.  He was completely disappointed.  
  
It wasn’t unusual for Maxwell to have distant periods, but this one was getting long enough to worry him.  He was hardly ever at home, and when he was, he ignored Wilson entirely.  At first he had taken it as a test, but it was starting to feel like punishment, and he didn’t know what he’d done to deserve it.  It had been weeks since they’d—  
  
No.  No, no, no, don’t start.  Don’t start…  
  
Wilson twisted to one side and rubbed his leg out of absent-minded habit.  His scars weren’t bothering him tonight, but oh, he was aching.  He hadn’t quite banished the idea of selling himself to Maxwell from his head, and the seed was sprouting magnificently.  That’s what he was doing, wasn’t it?  This was his life now.  He was a whore, and a cheap one at that.  He was reduced to begging and bargaining for the simplest things, licking his master’s boots for the slightest favor—  
  
 _Damn._  
  
He shouldn’t have thought about the boots.  What was he thinking, thinking about the boots?  That was it.  That did it.  He tried to blank his mind, tried to will it away, but when he rolled onto his back and looked down at the fur blanket, the bulge was more than evident.  
  
Damn.  And hell.  And fuck, if he must.  
  
It wasn’t that he couldn’t technically take care of it himself.  He had done it enough times Before, when it was an absolute necessity, and that was more often than he liked to admit.  He simply…hated it.  He hated the awkwardness of his own hands, he hated the shortness of the relief, and most of all he hated the endlessness afterward, left alone in bed with nothing gained from his efforts but a ruined handkerchief and a hollow shame in his chest.  
  
And now that he didn’t have to be alone, it was so much worse.  
  
Wilson gritted his teeth and closed his eyes.  He’d just sleep it off.  Again.  His limbs were already tired, his arms absurdly heavy.  He couldn’t even lift a hand to swat away Chester as she pulled at the blanket.  
  
The realization that Chester wasn’t in the room was somehow more remarkable than the realization that he was the one pulling the blanket away, until his mind stopped wandering and it very abruptly wasn’t.  
  
He jerked in shock, trying to sit upright, but his arms weren’t cooperating.  In fact, they were being outright rebellious.  Wilson stared down in mute panic as his hand moved without his bidding, stroking his erection through the fabric of his trousers.  He was hallucinating, he was Dropping, this couldn’t be happening, he had taken his—  
  
Pills.  
  
It was only as his other hand closed gently around his throat that he put it together.  
  
"M-Maxwell?"  
  
 _Right here, sweetheart._  
  
He almost looked around, but he didn’t need to.  “Maxwell, what did you g-g-give me?  Wh-why are you—” He cut himself short, gasping as both hands tightened.  
  
 _In your head?  Oh, I’m not just in your head, pal._   Wilson whimpered, trying to twist away from himself, failing.  _I think you just figured that out, though._  
  
"Th-this is absurd!"  
  
 _You think so?_   His thumb stroked his adam’s apple, a gesture Wilson had come to associate with Maxwell being pensive, or—God help him—playful.  _I don’t.  I think what’s absurd is I go away on a little business trip and you fall to pieces.  I think we need to fix that.  Don’t you?_  
  
Blood rushed to Wilson’s face as his hand slid down, began undoing the buttons on his vest one by one.  Wasn’t his body already betraying him enough?  
  
"No…M-Maxwell, please, no, I hate—you _know_ I h-hate—”  
  
 _Shut up, kid._ He pulled his vest open, revealing his pale, quaking chest. _I’m enjoying the view._  
  
"Don’t _look!_ " Fresh panic seized Wilson at the realization that Maxwell was seeing what he was seeing, and he tried to turn his head, close his eyes, but he had lost that control too.  His hands traced up his ribs, and he stifled a groan as nerves sparked in the delicate flesh of his collarbone.  
  
 _How else can I see what you’re doing, pet?_   There was a chuckle in the back of his head, and Wilson squirmed uselessly, burning with humiliation. _You know why you hate this?  You never learned to do it_ right.  
  
Wilson bit his lip as his hands slipped underneath his trousers.  
  
 _Class is in session._  
  
He had accepted his status as a whore gladly, very gladly at that, but there was still something shameful about seeing his body contort into’s a whore’s posture on its own.  It was usually Maxwell doing the positioning, pulling his limbs roughly one way or another, not deigning to fuck Wilson until he was satisfied with what he saw.  Technically, that was still the case, and he tried to cling to that, but as he ripped off his own clothes, spread his legs up and out to expose every filthy inch of his flesh, he couldn’t keep that blame.  Maxwell had his own special ways of twisting what Wilson wanted, but he _had_ wanted this, and he was getting it.  
  
 _You’re such an impatient little slut, is the problem._   Wilson moaned weakly as his hands moved over the delicate skin of his inner thighs.  Traitorous fingers stroked, then _pinched_ , and he gave up on being quiet, cried out at the burst of pain.   _All business, no play._  
  
"I-if you’re going to—if you’re going to d-do it, just do it, get it over with—" He cried out again, louder, as his fingernails raked up toward his erection, drawing bright lines of blood, and gritted his teeth at the way it made his cock jerk in need.  
  
 _I’ve warned you about not_ listening, _whore.  What did I just say?  Repeat it back to me.  What are you?_  
  
Wilson tried to close his eyes, couldn’t. “A-an impatient s-s-s-slut…”  
  
His hands tightened dangerously.  _The whole thing._  
  
"I-I’m an impatient f-fucking s-slut, Maxwell—!" His hips arched, out of both of their control, and the sensation of fur sliding underneath his legs and back was almost unbearable. "Oh God—"  
  
 _Good boy._ Wilson was never sure if that was a taunt or faint praise, but it always made his heart beat a little faster.  At the rate it was going already, he felt it might burst.  Like _he_ might burst.  His hands were on either side of his erection, stroking slowly, his chest shuddering from the heaviness of his breath.  But he didn’t want—he couldn’t—but oh God it _hurt_ —  
  
 _I can’t believe you, kid.  You think I haven’t noticed how hard you’ve needed a good fuck?  Your body is begging you, here, but you just won’t take care of it._ There was that chuckle again, and a keening whine escaped Wilson’s lips.  _You know they say—you want the job done right, do it yourself…_  
  
"Nnn—no—" Wilson thrashed helplessly as he began jerking himself off, the thin leather of his glove cool, his bare fingertips hot.  "S-stop, please, stop it—"  
  
 _Stop what, pal?  All I see is you being a randy little bitch._  
  
"D-don’t look…" His voice broke on the second word, humiliation burning through his chest as he tried and failed to look away from his twitching cock.  It was—it was different, it was _good_ , the delay and teasing built into a pleasure deeper than he had ever granted himself.  But it was the same awkward, shaky, shameful movement, the same uncooperative fingers, the same…useless body…  
  
 _You’re not useless, Wilson._  
  
Maxwell’s voice was sharp, all-encompassing, and it shocked Wilson out of his self-loathing.  
  
 _You just need someone who knows_ how _to use you._  
  
With that, his hand started pistoning mercilessly, thumb playing over the head of his cock with each stroke, and Wilson couldn’t bite back a prolonged, agonized cry.  The other played over his chest, scratching and pinching pink welts and dark bruises into pale skin, forcing sick pleasure on him, sensations that had been denied too long.  His body shook from the assault, hips rolling up into his own touch, and he needed it, needed it badly enough not to care anymore, but something—he couldn’t manage it, couldn’t push himself over even with intensity too sharp to touch—  
  
"Maxwell…" It was one word, but it was begging again, desperation turning the plea into a hoarse whisper.  
  
Maxwell laughed, sending blood rushing to his cheeks.  _You’re a freak, you know that?_  
  
But he granted him mercy, let Wilson’s hand close around his throat and tighten, and as that last perverse sweetness fell into place he came, hips bucking as he spilled over himself, gasping for air he wouldn’t let himself have.  It wasn’t like anything he’d done to himself before, it was immense, explosive, pleasure that rolled in waves up his spine, and when it was over he didn’t feel hollow but diffuse with relief.    
  
Maxwell let him recover briefly, and habit filled in the image of him lighting a cigar.  _Better?_  
  
Wilson lay panting, muscles twitching from tiny aftershocks. “Yes, Maxwell.”  
  
 _Good.  Let’s get that mess cleaned up…_  
  
Wilson’s hand moved one last time, pressing his semen-coated fingers to his lips, and he licked them clean obediently, trembling as the degradation threatened to start him back on the same path all over again.  
  
 _All right, all right, enough._   As Wilson swallowed, the unearthly presence left his limbs, and he dropped them immediately, exhausted.  _Now, you’re not going to put me through this much trouble again, are you?_  
  
He exhaled shakily. “No, Maxwell.”  
  
 _Good boy.  Now go the hell to sleep, your face is tiresome enough without the raccoon eyes._  
  
"Yes, Maxwell…"  
  
Wilson turned to lie on his side, glad the ordeal was over.  It had been…educational, certainly, it usually was, but it was still…  
  
In the back of his head, Maxwell sighed, resigned.  _Fuckin’ romantics._  
  
Shadows from under the bed gathered, rearranged themselves, and Wilson felt ethereal arms wrap around him from behind.  A tiny, lopsided smile spread over his face as he closed his eyes.  
  
So he was a whore.  
  
It was worth the pay.


	2. Afterthought

Maxwell was, by nature, a gambling man, but he always underestimated Wilson’s relentless appetite.  He had approximated three, four days at the very least before his needs spiked again, but no.  One night.  It wasn’t even late afternoon.  He was impressed despite himself.  
  
He watched his pet as he writhed on the sheets—he had knocked the blanket off in the throes of his self-pleasure, and Maxwell was pleased to see he hadn’t been shy enough to replace it.  He was learning, however slowly.  He was awkward, still, and his constantly shaky hands had fought to find a rhythm at first, but he was well into it now, sometimes using both hands to tease himself, sometimes letting the one not pumping his cock play up over his chest and neck, but all the time whimpering and mewling in desire.  
  
The ridiculous little man made a lot of noise in general, and it wasn’t any different when he was being fucked.  It was admittedly enjoyable, but more than that, it was useful—Maxwell had made note early of what each change in pitch, each gasp and moan indicated, and he took full advantage of the tells.  Right now, for instance, his breathing was going from heavy into fast, and his half-stifled groans were turning into low-pitched, prolonged cries.  Maxwell gauged the volume, nodded to himself, and put out his cigar.  
  
Wilson gasped, arching in shock as his arms were twisted behind him, torn from the edge of climax, nerves screaming from the sudden withdrawal of stimulation.  “Wh—M-Maxwell—”  
  
"I don’t recall giving you permission to touch my property, pal."  
  
He squirmed desperately, hips still arching, eyes watering. “But—”  
  
"You know how I feel about people touching my things."  
  
"But y-you JUST—"  
  
"I’ll let you off easy this time, don’t worry.  First offense, and all."  
  
Wilson groaned as Maxwell handcuffed his arms behind him, edging on hysteria. “Oh God M-Maxwell not r-really—”  
  
"Shhhh…" He held a finger to his pet’s lips. "Hold that thought, sweetheart.  I’ll be back in a few hours."  
  
” _But_ —” The last word allowed Maxwell to slip the gag on easily, and it muffled further protest, though further protests there were.  
  
Wilson’s frustrated scream was audible as Maxwell locked the front door of the house behind him, and he couldn’t help but smile.  That thin chest had a real set of pipes hiding in it.  
  
Now back to work…  
  
He stood by Chester, who was faithfully standing guard, and surveyed his project.  
  
"Sit."  
  
The monster before him sat.  
  
"Beg."  
  
The monster reared up on what passed for legs, inclined what passed for a head.  
  
"Roll over."  
  
With a groan of lumber and an impressive defiance of physics, the sapient gazebo rolled once,  
  
then back again, and was still.  
  
Maxwell grinned.  
  
He’d always been good with animals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to a highly interesting Tumblr anon for the afterthought tprompt!

**Author's Note:**

> In memory of Plescest  
> May HiNaBN one day rise from its grave


End file.
